


Forging A Family

by CavannaRose



Series: Rose Wilson Fics [9]
Category: Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), New Teen Titans, Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Injury, Injury Recovery, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6748312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose and Slade don't know what to do with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A hush fell over the arena, a pause in the endless rush of assassins that Rose was battling against. She took the moment to register her injuries. Strain on the gunshot in her shoulder, the gouge in her right thigh, no longer bleeding, but hindering her range of motion beyond that which she normally preferred. One blood-stained hand dragged across her forehead, catching some of the sweat from her mask, smearing the crimson stain from her skin into the fabric. Her single eye darted around, catching sight of Deathstroke and the Commander of this particular branch of the League of Shadows. So he had followed her, coming in to assist. Part of Rose was bitter, she could handle this task alone, the other half was touched. Slade Wilson was many things, but an affectionate father was not one of them. Though their own relationship was fraught with betrayal and distrust, he cared. This proved it, if nothing else did.

Once the scene above the arena was acknowledged, the onslaught began again, and Ravager let herself fall back into the pattern of the deadly dance she had accepted. Twin blades spun in stilted harmony, the occasional missed note as weariness and sheer numbers began to drag on even her own enhanced abilities. Still, she could not fail, not with him there, watching, fighting his own battle parallel to hers. She may hate her father, but she would not be the disappointment that he thought she was. A severed head flew over her shoulder and she stumbled, one knee hitting the ground as the group of trained killers converged upon her. Rose panted, a twisted laugh escaping her lips as she forced herself back upwards, spinning cuts raining outward against her opponents, driving back those that did not fall at her feet. The corpses were piling higher now, making the blood-soaked terrain that much more dangerous. She had to spare attention to her footing, rather than just to the bloodbath she was causing. There was no notice left to spare for the paternal echo of her battle happening above.

Seeing Slade take an injury, from the looks of it a particularly grievous one, did weird things to Rose's insides, leaving her all flustered and conflicted. Part of her rejoiced, a sense of vindication flooding her synapses with endorphins. He'd visited so much sorrow and torture upon her over the years, that it was hard not to feel that petty flush of joy. He had been the monster in her nightmares, stalking her across continents, threatening everyone she ever dared love that wasn't him. On the other hand, this was her father, a man that was supposed to be a stand up figure, the epitome of all that was strong in her world. He had taught her to be strong, ruthless and deadly. The skills she'd learned at his knee having kept her alive through the most dangerous periods of her existence. Neither one of the figures he represented were something she could turn her back on.

Despite all the influences in her life, despite their arguments and opposing views, she was first and foremost the daughter of Slade Wilson. Struggling to fight off the exhaustion pulling at her bones from the injuries she took, the one-eyed young woman turned and cleanly sliced off the head of Slade's opponent. Perhaps the wounds he'd given the man were enough to keep the assassin down, but she wasn't taking any chances. Slowly, pain clouding her thought processes, she gather up the weapons that she and her father had scattered about the place in their respective battles. She would leave nothing that belonged to either of them behind, besides the blood that now stained the wooden structures.

Sliding off her mask, she used it to tie the weapons together in a bundle, clipping it to Slade's bandoleer. He was bleeding profusely, and she simply didn't have the equipment or training to deal with it. Sliding a hand under each of his arms, she half hauled him up, staggering backwards step by uncomfortable step, dragging her father from the arena of death.

 

The wet echo of his cough, the slow hiss of his wheezing, these sounds concerned her. Rose knew what it felt like to have a lung penetrated, and it wasn't a pleasant sensation. Nor was it one she could repair with some bundled cloth and a little pressure. She searched his new, much younger face with her own, the wrinkle in her brow the only real sign of emotion on her face. It would be enough, though, for him. Slade was the one who had taught her to keep her emotional responses in check, so he would know the signs of her agitation.

Perhaps the clearest sign of her distress, beside the modulations in her tone and her actually calling him Dad, was that when Slade took her hand she simply held onto his, their two calloused palms gripping each other as well as the bandage strapped to the older mercenary's chest. If she had been thinking straight, she never would have allowed it. Rose barely let anyone touch her these days, particularly the man whose continuous plots and vendetta's had shattered so much of her trust in other people. But right now, they both needed the contact.

Holding a scrap of her tattered mask, she carefully wiped the blood and sweat from Slade's face. "We can't stay here too long, it's too close to the carnage. Can you heal this? Or do we need to find you a sawbones...?" Rose's nimble mind was already sorting through, and discarding, options. There were a few almost reputable underground 'doctor's that she might be able to take her father to, the trick was finding one who wasn't in the employ of someone who wanted either of them dead. She thought perhaps she knew of one working down the street from the Grin N' Bare It, but could they make it there in time?

It was strange, this calm, almost tender moment between Rose and her father. Maybe it was his injuries, or her own, that permitted them to, for a short while, be gentle with one another. They had both nearly dies today, and not by the hands of one another. Perhaps that was the rub. These days, only a Wilson killed another Wilson, a precedent set up by the man hacking up blood with his head resting in her lap.

Rose knew better than to trust her father, she knew that every kindness he showed, even if it were genuine, had an ulterior motive buried somewhere underneath. Tonight they had worked together, rather well in fact, but she would not rejoin his crusade. The last time he had attempted to sway her to his side, she had lost the small semblance of family she had built up around herself, and that was not a scenario she wished to repeat. Her father brought sorrow and death, it was his legacy, and it was something she wanted no part of.

"I'm... I'm glad you'll heal, dad." There. It was said. Rose Wilson-Worth didn't have the tongue for loving phrases, the tendency stomped out of her early on by her father's betrayal, but in her own way, that stuttered phrase was an admission of sorts. Despite all he had done to her, despite all he had done to her brothers and her friends, there was a flicker of love in her shriveled little heart for the man who had sired her.


	2. Chapter 2

Her father was as tough as they come; a harsh man who had wanted his children to be the same. Still, every once in a while, the man that Sweet Lilli Worth had fallen for shone through. Rose comforted herself with these glimpses, the small hopes that somewhere within the stern mercenary that sired her beat a real human heart, fallible as the rest of the world.

There was something about Slade taking her hand to help himself to his feet, an emotion of sorts that tried to penetrate the wall of hate she had erected between them. She fought it as well as she could, but of all the Terminator's children, she was the most like him. Grant had tried, and Joey... Joey had been the gentlest of them all. It was his daughter that echoed his stoic demeanor and hollow view of life best, and that, perhaps, was why she was so often a disappointment to him.

Rose had to be very, very careful here. Her father was Deathstroke, how could he not know even her weaknesses? Everything she wanted in life had been dangled from his hands before, tempting her down a path from which there was no redemption. Ironically, it was he who had set her in the direction of Nightwing and the Titans. If not for them, she would likely have abandoned it entirely and gone willingly. Her resistance was his own doing, a flaw in his otherwise perfect plan.

She let out a startled squeak as he lifted her into his arms, carrying her in a manner she hadn't experienced since she was a child. No one dared, not even those that liked her the most. Not without asking first. She wrapped a second, thin arm around his shoulders, the clear blue of her single eye clouded by confusion as she searched his grim face. Had he just... made a joke? A tentative smile curled up her lip at one corner, some of the sparkle coming back to her gaze.

"A satin stitch would be thorough, at least. I think you're just trying to avoid extra pain." She teased the man who she had once called Daddy. "I could always stitch you up with a row of French knots if you'd prefer?"

"Absolutely not. That will ruin the line to my suit. It's like wearing a skirt with jeans under it."

Blame it on the exhaustion, or the crash from all the adrenaline that had been running through her veins, but Rose was relaxed. She was only teasing her father about the French Knots, Mrs Madison had never managed to get the much more volatile, younger Rose to settle long enough to learn that particular stitch. Embroidery was a fiddly task, and she had been an... active young teen.

The strength of her father's arms holding her, especially after the violence they had just performed together, set her a tad off balance. It made something soft of her. Unwilling to meet the man's gaze any further, to reveal more about how their familial closeness was affecting her, she buried her head against her father's chest and closed her eye. Maybe he'd let her pretend just a little while longer, before he dropped the other shoe.

The deep rumble of his voice vibrated the chestplate slightly under her cheek as he spoke again, continuing their jesting exchange. "Thanks Dad," she murmured, drowsy amusement thick in her voice, for once free of the strain it usually held in his presence. "Now I'm picturing you in some flirty little dress and jeggings. I know you're partial to blue and orange, but I think purple might really be your colour."

She laughed again, it was perhaps the softest sound she had ever made in Slade's presence, genuine enjoyment laced along every note. It felt like... family. For once in her life, her father's arms felt like home.

It was a strange sensation, this congenial truce they were maintaining. They had never been a family that laughed together, but Rose's mother had a grand sense of humour, one that eased the minds of patrons and doves at the establishment whose walls had been all Rose had known before LaFarge ruined everything. Perhaps it was these glimmers of humour that had attracted the Cambodian princess and Madame to the rough mercenary.

The pale-haired girl allowed a smile to cross her lips, perching on the motorcycle in front of Slade, for once not caring where they were headed. Was this what it was like to be cared for? She could hardly remember. Was this a father showing affection for his only living child, or was it all part of some deeper, more intricate ploy to pull her under again? Only time would tell... but who would tell Eddie? Rose inwardly cringed, picturing the betrayal on her best friend's face. He was more suspicious than even she, and always concerned for her well-being. Perhaps for now, she would stay silent.

"Maman always liked the rumble of the engines, though she preferred the bulky road hogs and I have developed a fondness for the lean lines of the speed bikes. When the girls were taking afternoon naps to prepare for their evening customers, Maman would sometimes take me out for rides." Her voice held a note of wistfulness, saddened by the thought that her most cherished childhood memories took place in a brothel.

Even then, she had been learning the darker lessons that the world had to offer. That people always wanted something from you. Nothing was free. Most importantly, she learned that a woman must know how to protect herself. Maman had begun her fighting training, and over the years, she'd had enough teachers to become a force to be reckoned with. All this ran through her head, while her father's strong arms kept her on the bike, protecting or trapping her there? Did it even matter anymore?

Rose woke up with a start; confused, disoriented. The last thing she remembered was the battle, and the faintest sensation of her father picking her up, but it was all a little blurry in her sleep-muddled mind. Had she really fallen asleep with Slade so close? She cursed the League of Shadows in a million ways. Perhaps she had just been more exhausted than she thought, to show that kind of trust, but Rose had never been a heavy sleeper, so scenarios of poison and betrayal danced across her mind.

 

 

 

The blanket shifted down her torso, revealing that her injuries had been expertly bandaged and wrapped. The practiced hand was clearly that of her father, he had an almost military precision when he cared for such things. The stubborn fighter had likely catered to his own injuries as well. Different scenarios skated across her consciousness, none of them particularly flattering. Life had made a rather suspicious creature out of Rose Wilson, and she didn't like that sunlight was peeping around the curtain edges.

She carefully moved out of the bed, favouring her injured leg as she cast a surreptitious look around the rather Spartan, masculine room. No where in sight could she detect her eye patch, and that made her extra nervous. It had become a kind of security blanket for her, but for now she carefully arranged her hair to cover her scarred face.

Taking a deep breath, she made her tentative way towards the door, leaning against it for a long moment before finally turning the knob. Easing the wooden portal open gently, she slid around it and into the apartment to see if she could locate her father. Rose had no idea what she would say to him, but perhaps it was time that their family had a bit of a talk.


	3. Chapter 3

Slade Wilson was quite the sight when she turned the corner to his living room. Half dressed, propped up on bloodstained cushions, wounds still festering beneath last night's impromptu bandages... Rose's heart twinged a little. Clearly he had exhausted the rest of his energy caring for her, and the girl couldn't help but feel touched. Maybe it was possible that, after all this time, he'd remembered how to act like a father.

As skittish as she'd ever felt in her life, Rose approached her father as he rustled into wakefulness. She was alive with confusion, but what he had done for her, she could do for him at least. Moving past the couch to the kitchen, she gently brushed a hand over his shoulder, urging him to stay seated.

The tap could be heard running, drawers and cupboards opening and closing as she navigated the unfamiliar place. Several moments later, though, she re-emerged, a damp towel and bowl of steaming water in one hand, a bottle of alcohol in the other. She was almost afraid to speak, as if worried that it would shatter the fragile moment they were still somehow sharing.

Rose placed the items on the couch beside Slade, right next to the stitch kit he had clearly not gotten to the previous evening. Her gaze darted questioningly to his face, and then away again as she knelt by her father's feet. The pale haired girl pretended her hands weren't shaking as she gently unwound the bandages from around his chest. They stuck in a few places, causing Rose to wince as they pulled at the older mercenary's torn flesh.

Once the wrappings were discarded, a stained mass of filth and disease seeping into the carpeting, the blood began to ooze from the wounds faster. A still cautious Rose delicately dabbed the mess away with the damp towel, rinsing it several times. She focused on the task, rather than the man, still not sure what to do about the truce they had forged, even knowing they would have to discuss this... them... soon.

Rose bit her lip, turning her head away slightly, her voice had a slight hitch in it, but mostly maintained that gravel edge of bitterness. "You'll have to forgive me if I am not in the habit of trusting you. Criticism and backstabbing come more natural to us than patching each other's wounds."

Setting aside the towel, she took a calming breath, steadying the tremble in her hands. For what came next, she needed to be steady. Stable. Finally her body submitted to the fearsome pressure of her indomitable will. The shaking halted, and she pulled the stitch kit closer. If she couldn't keep her involuntary actions under control, she could cause more harm than good. Threading the needle, she paused, eye turning upwards to meet her father's as she first ran the tip of the needle through the flame of a lighter, and then dipped it in rubbing alcohol.

Finally she bent back to her task, carefully sewing the ragged flesh together with small, neat stitches. Lilli had been an exacting taskmaster, and a young Rose had spent many afternoons helping the ladies who worked for her repair their garments. It was unlikely her mother could have anticipated where Rose would employ this skill later in her life, but she was glad to have mastered it.

After the first wound was stitched, she took out the damp towel again, dipping it in the cooling water to clear away the small droplets of blood from the stitches. It was straight and clean. "It should heal well, the threading can come out in a day or two. You'll need a new set of manicure scissors for it, though. The ones in your kit are rusted."


	4. Chapter 4

He watches her.. well.. he couldn't afford not to. If he moves, it's either the wounds would hurt him, or she will. He just, lay back, and watched her as she tended to him. Her hands may grip the sword most nights, but they were soft, they were so collected. So.. steady. She was quiet too.. few words, but otherwise.. focused. She certainly had turned into.. /him/. Slade slowly moves up as she fixes her tools after the procedure, and he places his hand on her cheek, smiling.

As steely as she always tries to be, Rose flinches when her father's hand comes in contact with her cheek, as if she expected the gesture to be accompanied by pain, or at least anger, a flicker of the fragility within her racing across her eye before it is once again hidden behind the coldness of her usual expression. Inside, the girl feels like she's spinning, and she wants nothing more than to pause and take a deep, steadying breath.

But even that would be telling the man who sired her something about her emotional state, so she does her best to hold steady as he continues in this world-shifting gentleness, giving him as little reaction as she can, and trying to meet his gaze with her own. With such a simple gesture, he could still tip her entire existence into a tizzy, and she just didn't know what to do. But she was Slade Wilson's only living daughter, so she dug deep for that dry, humourless voice she'd worked so hard on developing.

"Just.. some time.. with my daughter." Slade once more shines a smile at her, and scoots over the couch. He makes as much space as he can for her before patting the empty space beside him. That look in his eyes was sincere, but it was that same look he used to manipulate her. There was a string of connection, not dangling gold. "Sit with me, Rose."

Time with Slade... that could be several different kinds of dangerous. Time spent with him often led to her falling deeper into whatever web of lies he was weaving. It was hard to trust the sincerity she heard. What was the problem? Was it her? Was it him? She couldn't quite tell. Sighing, running a hand through her hair to settle it over her scarred face better, she moved to perch uncomfortably on the sofa beside her father. "I'm not sure what you want from me, I don't know how to do anything other than distrust you."

"You're right to do so. Remember the first lesson I taught you? Never trust anyone. Not even me. But you fall for the same trick... over.. and over again."

Rose immediately stiffened, her brows drawing together in an angry line. "If you think I'm falling for tricks this time, you couldn't be more wrong. I finally realized that you can't give me what I want most. There's something... missing in you." She turned away, not leaving the couch but giving him her back. "Something missing in me too. Even if you could offer me a chance at a real family, I couldn't accept it anymore. Congratulations, Dad, you've managed to make me tougher than either Grand or Joey ever were. Too bad I'm still just a girl, or you could have your perfect little heir."

She pushed up off the couch, reaching into that deep pit of rage at the centre of her. It fueled everything she did, everything she was. "So cut to the chase, enough of your damn games. What the fuck do you want with me? As soon as you put it out there, I can shoot it down and get back to the shitty excuse at existence that passes for my life."

Slade.. was proud. For one.. he didn't need to worry about her getting involved in anything she didn't have to.. well.. .. y'know. Second.. she had a compass. She understood now. But that rage of hers will get the best of her. Slade smiled nevertheless. He stands from the couch, and places his M1911 on the coffee table to his right.

"I'm not here for anything. If you can recall.. /you/ came to my apartment.. and I just helped you kill a whole lot of Shadow Ninjas. So if you think, that I am doing anything else, than help my baby girl get out of trouble... shoot me." Forcing her to go against her feelings again? No. This time it was a choice.

Rose half turned, watching both Slade and the gun from the corner of her eye. She was so angry, at him, at the world, at herself for coming here in the first place. He was right, things got too rough and she ran to daddy like a frightened child. She scoffed at him. "I came to the one place where I didn't care if the person helping me got killed. You're an acceptable loss risk."

With that she dove for the gun, rolling and lifting, sighting down the barrel, hand steady. The rage laced around her words, trying to drag her under. "I should shoot you right now, do the world and myself a favour. None of my old team mates would even hold this death against me."

Maybe it was the smile that had set her off, maybe it was the way he could get inside her head, as if he knew and understood her, despite how little time they actually spent in each other's lives. She started to lower the weapon. "This was a mistake. Thanks for keeping me alive, but I'm leaving town. Don't come find me." She slid the gun across the table and turned to the door. Maybe for once he'd just let her go.


	5. Chapter 5

His arms wrapped around her and she went stiff. Rose was not the touchy feely type, years of neglect and denial had taken care of any latent urges towards softness left in her. Sure she might be known to indulge in the occasional tumble between the sheets, but no soft stuff. No hugging. No kissing on the mouth. Nothing that required the participants to look like they cared. She didn't even quite know how to return the gesture, she certainly didn't trust it. So she stood there, unmoving as a block of wood, confusion the main emotion on her face, just barely tinged with pain. It didn't matter, he couldn't see her face right this moment. "What are you doing?" She managed to choke out, she shouldn't let him know that it was bothering her, but she ... she had to know what was going on. She didn't like this warmth that was trying to fill her.

Love. It was a feeling that Rose was deeply unfamiliar with, and even more uncomfortable with. She remained stiff until her father deigned to release her, part of her surprised it hadn't been a trick to injure her in some fashion. She gave him the barest ghost of a smile. "Right. Um... Look... This was weird, right? Like... We're clearly not huggers, we barely like each other, nevermind love each other. So how about we not do that again, okay?"

He gave her his back, turning away from her in a rare show of trust. "If you're gonna go.. you might wanna consider staying for my cooking."

Rose bit her lip as she watched him turn, revealing the signs of his years as a mercenary. She had a feeling that her own back rather resembled his, or at least it would in a few years from now. Carefully she put her hair back in place, one strand at a time, and then adjusted her eye patch. She was, after all, rather particular about her appearance these days. "I'm poor enough I never turn down a free meal."

"Well.. I'm sure you can learn this cuisine easily." Slade began to whip out his tools. A bowl, some mixing utensils, and more. Then the ammo. Pancake flour, 4 eggs.. make that 6. Hotdogs, and Bacon. Slade didn't hesitate and began to make his breakfast. Eggs and Bacon with a side of Pancakes and Hotdogs.


End file.
